


In Which The Angel Sings Stan Rogers

by Cuda (Scylla)



Category: Supernatural, due South
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Mounties (RCMP), Post-Call of the Wild, Road Trips, Singing, The Half Wolf Really Does Look Like A Husky, Unexpected Canadian Passengers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-15 20:25:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scylla/pseuds/Cuda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shot, not part of a larger arc. ...Yet, anyway. During a job, Sam, Dean and Castiel end up transporting a couple of civvies, which results in five people and a half-wolf crammed into the Impala for a few hours. Dean learns that if there’s anyone you shouldn’t leave an impressionable angel of the Lord with for more than a few hours, it’s a Mountie. At least not as long as you want to listen to your own damn music. I apologize profusely to anyone from Canada who may read this story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which The Angel Sings Stan Rogers

The Impala heard its share of singing. Sometimes it was just Dean, grinding out Bon Jovi. Sometimes Sam sang along - although not much. Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole - and this particular ‘shotgun’ associated Dean’s taste in music with sullen hours in the backseat, plotting his eventual escape. Bobby usually never rode along, and when he did he didn’t join in - except for one rare occasion involving a country station, a Hank Williams song, and a frightening head wound wherein they all forced Sam to sing to keep him conscious until they reached the Emergency Room.

Castiel never sang at all. Dean badgered him about it once - Sam wasn’t along for that trip and seriously, you can’t really sing “Wanted” without a partner - but got no joy for his trouble. His voice within this vessel was ill-suited for singing, Castiel protested, and furthermore, he didn’t see the pleasure to be had in singing about being chased down by law enforcement officials. They already had that problem, and it was not entertaining.

Philistine, Dean thought, and gave up, assuming that was that.

If either Dean or the Impala could have placed wagers on what sort of music might actually trip Castiel’s trigger, though, neither of them would’ve bet on weird Canadian folk songs. Then again, neither of them were aware that the genre existed. Dean only listened to his tapes or radio stations with names that ended in “CLASSIC ROCK.” As for the Impala, her heart was forged in Detroit, Michigan, so there you are. With that, neither of them spent much time in the company of Canadians by matter of happenstance, specifically not  _these_  Canadians. Or rather, Canadian native, and Canadian-by-way-of-Chicago. And, apparently, the trail of the killers of Fraser’s father, for reasons which didn’t need exploring at the time.

Whatever way you shook it, Dean clearly left Castiel with RCMP Benton Fraser  _way_  too long. The guys turned out to be useful, and Fraser (as he preferred to be called) had scary tracking skills. As in, could track a field mouse at night across fifty square miles of brush, scary - to say nothing of a wounded and unbalanced werewolf. Ray was a loose cannon, but with the glasses on, he was a better shot than Sam. After about three days in Fraser’s company, though, Castiel started using phrases like ‘thank you kindly,’ and ‘for reasons that don’t need exploring at this juncture.’ Even before he started having rational-but-one-sided conversations with Fraser’s half-wolf, Diefenbaker, Dean should have guessed things were going sort of funny. Unfortunately, he didn’t pay much attention.

Until now. Until now, when Castiel delved into that weird Canadian folk music genre from the back seat, squished against the window behind Dean and beside Ray and Fraser. Fraser, who seemed to fill the whole countryside with his sheer _thereness,_ even when he wasn’t in the fire engine red party costume posing as a uniform. In the back of the Impala, he was a tight fit, but somehow Castiel found the space and lung capacity to start singing about hands and passages and warm lines. Dean had about two seconds to wonder what the fuck was happening in his back seat, when Fraser joined in, picking up the higher scale and blending his voice with Castiel’s rough tenor in perfect harmony.

Dean exchanged a glance with Sam in the passenger seat, who twisted to look over his shoulder at Castiel like the angel just littered baby unicorns. He looked back at Dean, shrugged, and faced forward with his hand over his mouth. The kid had freakishly big hands, but he still couldn’t cover up the whole smile. What was so funny about Castiel singing? Dean couldn’t get Castiel to sing. Castiel singing probably meant he’d been bitten by a beetle or something and was delirious in some weird way that was exclusive to angels and Dean had no idea how to treat a delirious angel with poisonous beetle bites. Plus he was just kind of upset that Castiel knew the lyrics to a song he didn’t know. Castiel was an angel of the freaking Lord, he could probably get radio stations from like, Portugal on his back teeth, but Dean still kind of wondered whose car he’d been sitting in when he learned to sing and decided he liked it.

“We gonna roast marshmallows and sing ‘Kum-ba-ya’ and pitch our tents for merit badges later?” Dean asked, which was the most polite way he could think of to say ‘knock it off or own up if you’re dying of poisonous beetles.’

The singing abruptly stopped. “Ah, I’m sorry, Dean,” Fraser said, earnest and awkward, “I believe Castiel began - and I harmonized - simply as a means to pass the time. This trip promises to be quite long and the number of passengers makes it somewhat uncomfortable. It could do with some leavening. However, if it irritates you, we will stop.” And because it was Dean’s life and it apparently still hated him, Sam looked over at him like he didn’t understand why Dean had to be such a jerk all the time. About the only person who seemed to be in agreement with Dean was the half-wolf (looked like a husky to him), sprawled across Sam’s lap.

Ray Kowalski (the ‘Canadian-by-way-of-Chicago’ part of the equation) squeezed over Fraser’s knees from the window and leaned his head in next to Sam’s. “You got a problem with ‘Northwest Passage,’ Dean?” Ray asked, easy and dangerous, like he’d be happy to rumble right here in the car, “Because it’s practically the Canadian national anthem and  _as such_ , if you’ve got a problem with the Canadian national anthem—”

“Unofficially,” Fraser pointed out.

“—Unofficially,” Ray bobbed his head, “you’ve got a problem with Canada. And therefore, you’ve got a problem with  _me_.”

And Dean wanted to say  _you’re not IN Canada, you’re in MY CAR,_ but reconsidered just short. “No, please, by all means, sing your little boy scout hearts out!” Dean said instead, waving both hands away from the steering wheel for a second or two.

Nobody bought that, and tension ratcheted up another notch or two while Ray decided whether or not he was still entitled to beat Dean’s head in and Fraser and Castiel considered potential methods of defusing the situation before there was bloodshed. Nobody wanted bloodshed. Dean was driving and there were no Hank Williams songs on the horizon to keep him conscious. The Impala always worried when someone bled on her upholstery.

So Dean - who by now practically had the chorus of the song _tattooed on his subconscious_ \- began to, awkwardly, sing. By the second line, Fraser (of course) jumped in to rescue him, and then Castiel on the bottom. Dean couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, but as tunes went, this one was simple and repetitive and being off-key actually seemed to help. Ray picked up pretty soon after, and then (God help him) SAM got into it, and about  _forty two thousand verses later_ Dean was actually starting to not mind. The song would go pretty good with a beer, as a matter of fact.

Dean felt Castiel’s hand sneak up to rest on his shoulder, heavy and warm, and quirked a little smile. “So what else do you know?” Dean asked.

“Everything,” Castiel replied, “and since Benton explained the means of breathing required to properly utilize this voice—”

“Which is perfectly fine and quite unique, I must say, for a tenor,” Fraser added.

“—I’m in no danger of causing any permanent damage to your eardrums. Or shattering your windshield.”

“Well, hallelujah,” Dean’s answer was dry, but he was still smiling. He tipped his head to shuffle Castiel’s hand a little further up his neck, and reached up to squeeze his fingers.

“Leonard Cohen, Jeff Buckley, or another variation?” Castiel asked seriously.

Dean laughed. The Impala was smiling too, in the glints of afternoon sun on her windshield. But - as when Diefenbaker whined in defeat and stuffed his head to the ears under Sam’s arm - nobody noticed.


End file.
